To the Victor Belong the Spoils
by Lizzzers
Summary: He had fought in so many wars. This one was no different. He won, but victory had never tasted so bitter. Future WWIII-esque setting.


This was written up very quickly in response to a reviewer of mine on my story 'This Is Justice'. Charley the Plant, said reviewer, won a random drawing of mine and got to make a request. Quite simply it was to involve Empire!England with America, preferably with America being none too happy. Anywho read on, and I'll explain better at the end of this story what the history is that leads up to this moment.

* * *

  
The point of the cutlass dug in just beneath his collarbone, and he waited for the moment a drop of blood would well up, anticipated the second skin would break. All the blade left was a shallow, red scratch.

"Say it."

Alfred was on his knees, and glaring ahead with a determined set to his jaw. His shoulder involuntarily jerked backwards when the blade dragged down a short ways from where it was pressed against the pale skin. A bead of sweat rolled down the back of his neck, his torn and ruined uniform a shadow of its former self.

His head tilted back, neck exposed, "No." He looked at the other nation through half lidded eyes.

A quiet sigh, so soft that he almost missed it over the sound of his own heartbeat. He briefly saw the smooth, black leather of a boot, and then he was reeling backward. Alfred landed on the cold floor with an 'oomph'.

After rolling over onto his back he glared up at the other nation, "The hell man?" The boot that had shoved him a moment ago fell flat on his neck, with enough force to keep him from breathing.

"That wasn't a request." Never before had he hated an accent as mu-Okay, maybe during the Cold War, but now...Now the sound of the lilting vowels and crisp pronunciation made his stomach clench in nausea. He wasn't dealing with Arthur, no, he hadn't seen him in years. This was the British Empire.

The boot lifted enough for him to choke on a deep breath and say what it was the sandy blond wanted. Though he wouldn't. Alfred gazed up at the confident nation who looked down his nose at the United States of America with what bordered on disdain.

Arthur leaned over his upraised leg, arm casually draping across it with the cutlass hanging from a loose fingered grip as he regarded the disheveled blue eyed boy. "Stubborn." He mused with a smile that didn't reach his eyes.

Alfred threw his head to the side, but kept the older nation in edge of his vision. "You can wait 'till the cows come home." He smiled, amusement lighting up his features as bright blues flicked back toward the British Empire, "'But I'm not saying it."

There was another sigh, another bored roll of the eyes. "Really Alfred, you can be so melodramatic." Physically there was nothing wrong with Alfred, and aside from the boot cutting off his air supply a second ago, a hand hadn't been lain on him.

Mentally was another matter. He'd lost track of the days that they'd been through this. It was only a matter of time before the other nations would realize what was happening. Then again some of them had been the eager jerks who'd started the war.

He snapped back to attention when he realized the British Empire had been speaking during his thoughtful moment, "-And after all that had transpired I would have expected you to be more grateful." A small frown between those huge, ridiculous brows.

Alfred almost laughed, but if he did he might start crying and if he did that then he'd have lost. And he wasn't losing to _him_.

Arthur pulled his foot back and knelt down in front of Alfred, who scrambled to sit up so he wouldn't feel so vulnerable.

"I'm curious, as to why you continue to be _so_ stubborn." That sounded like genuine curiosity, but Alfred knew better. This was just another way to try and confuse him. "Your people are that of the Queen's, and they couldn't be happier." The Empire nearly hummed in satisfaction as he said so.

Alfred's mind flashed to the newspaper headings, the cheers and elated cries of his people as their friends across the pond came to save them for once; instead of the other way around. Then the memory was gone and he was left facing the dark eyed nation that had taken the place of the Arthur he remembered.

"Wrong." Alfred spat out the word. "We trusted you, _I _trusted you. This isn't the freakin' good ol' days you are so caught up in. You can't just take what's not yours." Alfred blew at a strand of hair that fell across his eye.

He must have said something, because the lazy smirk that was always present on the nation's features slowly turned into a broad smile.

One gloved hand reached across the small distance to cup the side of Alfred's face, and he found himself frozen to the spot. For a moment he thought he'd caught a glimpse of Arthur in those dark green eyes. A flash of a happier time, but it was gone before he could even blink.

"But you were always mine America."

* * *

  
I love me some Historical Empire!England, but I also enjoy the idea of England getting back his Empire-groove in present day times. So yes, this is set sometime in the future, not too far really. The back story I am a little uncertain about giving, because it was a plot idea of mine. Basically there was a Third World War, and it actually took place on American land for some of it. Good ol' England stepped in, but didn't quite leave when the war was over. Thus this little tidbit. My brain is a bunch of mush right now, but hopefully this makes sense. Ah well, I hope you enjoyed Charley! You inspired my brain to get more plot idears.


End file.
